Page 72 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
On instinct, I grab his hand because I think he’d want me to right now.
“Everyone we know has had a stalker at least once.”
“I know,” he sighs. “I just—put me on edge?”
I nod, my eyes scan his face.
“Are you checking if I’m high?”
“No.”
“Yes you are.”
“I—”
“Do you believe me?”
“Of course I do.”
There’s a brief moment of silence.
“Have you been sent anything?”
I shake my head because I haven’t thought about the flowers. They’ve stopped now and if I keep analysing it, I’ll have to do something about it and what, realistically, would I do? Go to the police? Fat chance they’d take someone like me seriously.
It made me sick when I found out they weren’t from Digby but at the same time, I have so much other shit that’s making me anxious that it really wasn’t my number one priority. Like I said, getting a stalker is almost like a right of passage for people like us (unfortunately. I wish it was something more simple like taking acid at Burning Man but here we are).
Arthur stands up, drops my hand, stares at me.
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
He nods, so sure of himself. “You are.”
I stand up as well. “I’m not.”
“Just tell me, Phoebs.”
I throw my hands up. “It wasn’t important!”
He sighs, sniffs out a short laugh. “So you have?”
“It doesn’t matter, Arthur!”
“Yes it fucking does!” He shouts, hands in his hair.
Roll my eyes, brush past him and into the kitchen.
He follows me, grabs my arm, spins me around.
“Tell me what it was.”
And with the way I find myself swimming in the blue streaks of his eyes, he could’ve dragged The Nightmare out of me.
“It was just flowers.”
“Baby’s breath?”
